


ten years

by kushling



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Injury, M/M, Rimming, Same-Sex Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 01:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10730928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kushling/pseuds/kushling
Summary: married bokuroo





	ten years

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh this is my first fic for this pairing lol i can't write

On the walk back home from the Italian restaurant where Bokuto and Kuroo had just had their tenth anniversary dinner, the sky started to piss down like never before.

Kuroo, who was the responsible one in the relationship—this being only a relative responsibility, admittedly, given that they were both, even at the age of 28, complete fucking hooligans—whipped out an umbrella. He yanked Bokuto to his side, but even as close as Bokuto huddled to his side, his arm tight around Kuroo’s waist, the tiny umbrella was not very effective. Kuroo’s broad shoulders stuck out from underneath it, and he noticed that Bokuto’s did as well, catching drop after drop of water. Kuroo suspected that they would be decently drenched by the time they reached home.

“Stop splashing at the puddles!” he yelled over the noise of the rainfall. “Your pant legs are getting soaked.” They were both wearing fancy clothes, and Bokuto’s weren’t even his own; they were Oikawa’s. Kuroo knew Oikawa won’t take kindly to ruined designer slacks, and he groaned inwardly at the prospect of having that inevitable conversation.

“Let me live,” said Bokuto, elbowing Kuroo in the side. “Hey—let’s stop and get a DVD.” He nodded across the street towards a video store, and before Kuroo could say anything, he untangled himself from Kuroo’s grip, ducked out from under the umbrella, and quickly strode across the traffic of the street, paying no mind to the several puddles in his way.

“Idiot!” yelled Kuroo, before following. He apologized to a driver seething through his window at Kuroo’s jaywalking, pausing to bow quickly and hastily as he ran to where his husband was.

Bokuto stood underneath the awning of the video store, shaking his head like a giant puppy. “You’re going to get sick,” said Kuroo, collapsing the umbrella. “You better take some emergen-C when we get home.”

Bokuto ran a hand through his hair, which was plastered against his head, having lost all of its complicated structure in the rain. He looked up and caught Kuroo’s eye. “Stop looking at me like that,” he said, with a begrudging grin.

“Can’t help it,” said Kuroo. “You’re so cute when your hair is down.” Bokuto only ever really had his hair down at home, during the early mornings before he styled it, during lazy days when he never bothered to. He thought it looked dumb, but Kuroo disagreed—there was nothing more soothing to him than having Bokuto’s head in his lap and running his fingers through those loose silvery strands, doing something as boring and domestic as talking about work, or watching a movie, or just sitting there as Bokuto slept.

Bokuto’s face tinged pink at Kuroo’s comment and he rolled his eyes, still smiling slightly, turning to enter the store. He went immediately to the documentary section, and Kuroo lingered around the rom-coms.

As Kuroo stared at the titles of sappy dramas and sappy Hollywood flicks, Kuroo thought about his life for the past ten years: Bokuto. He couldn’t believe it—they had been married for ten years, now, though Japan only legally recognized them as roommates for a good eight of those years, until they’d moved to Shibuya and gotten a special partnership certificate. It was the dumbest thing Kuroo had ever done in his life—taking a post-graduation trip to the U.S. with his best friend, getting drunk-married via an Elvis—it’d all been a joke back then, until it wasn’t. Until Kuroo and Bokuto really sat down and considered the weight of the situation, considered that the time for being stupid kids was over. Considered the fact that spending the rest of their lives with anyone else was unthinkable. He remembered those strange first two years when everything had changed—they had both been so young, so emotional, but definitely so in love. And it’d worked out in the end. They’d grown together.

“I want this one,” said Bokuto from across the store, holding up Blackfish. “Been meaning to watch it for a while.”

Kuroo groaned. “You and your nonfiction,” said Kuroo scathingly. Bokuto was a sports writer, and he ate up any form of journalism he could get his hands on. It was disgusting.

“As if you’re going to pick anything better,” retorted Bokuto. He strode over. “Let me guess—You’ve Got Mail, for the seventeenth time this year alone.” He grabbed the DVD from Kuroo’s hands and held it up—indeed, it was You’ve Got Mail.

“It’s our anniversary. Let me live,” said Kuroo.

“Sappy idiot.”

Kuroo glared at Bokuto, but allowed him to gently put the DVD back into its slot. They went to the cash register for checkout.

“Don’t you have You’ve Got Mail downloaded on your laptop anyways?” asked Bokuto.

“I’ll never deny an opportunity to financially support Tom Hanks,” said Kuroo.

The girl at the cash register had a nice smile, and, noticing Bokuto’s choice, struck up a conversation with him about animal rights. Bokuto, friendly as he was, replied with ready enthusiasm.

“Sorry I’m so talkative—we just don’t get a lot of people coming around here anymore,” said the girl, waiting for the register to print the receipt. “Netflix kind of ruined our business.”

“You know, believe it or not, we actually don’t have Netflix,” said Kuroo. “So we drop by video stores a lot, or go with whatever we find online. We haven’t been to this one before, though—we’re from a bit away, we just came here for dinner.”

The girl perked up at the mention of food. “Oh, where’d you go?”

“The Italian restaurant a few blocks down,” said Bokuto, leaning forward on the counter, peering at the machine and knocking his knuckle on it as it sputtered torturously. “It was pretty delicious.”

“Oh, that one is really nice,” she said. “What was the occasion? You guys look pretty good tonight.” She blushed, her gaze lingering on Bokuto, who didn’t notice.

“We were just celebrating—”

“Celebrating a promotion,” lied Kuroo quickly, cutting Bokuto off. Bokuto’s head snapped to look at him, and Kuroo held his gaze for a moment before looking back at the girl and smiling. “This guy just became Senior Sports Editor.” Kuroo patted Bokuto on the back, and Bokuto gave the girl a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, Kuroo noticed.

The girl smiled back brightly. “Congratulations!” she said. The receipt finally wedged its way out of the ancient machine, and she pulled it out and handed it to Bokuto to sign. “I was wondering,” she began, watching him scribble. “If you wanted to meet up sometime to watch a movie?”

“Me?”

The girl blushed a deeper color. “Yes.” Kuroo watched Bokuto’s eyes wide as he handed the receipt back to her. “Um—”

Kuroo laughed. He had noticed the girl flirting with Bokuto, but he hadn’t expected this. As Bokuto hesitated in giving a proper response, Kuroo took the receipt from her tiny hands and flipped it over, scribbling a number on the back. “His name is Bokuto Koutaro,” he said as he wrote. “He likes long walks on the beach and can drink anyone under the table. He’s really awful at volleyball, can’t play it at all. He hates writing. Call him up anytime, cutie.” He thrust the receipt back towards her and grabbed the DVD.

The girl nodded furiously, her face blushing a bright red. “Nice to meet you, Bokuto!” Kuroo thought about how heartbroken she would be when she found out he’d given her a fake number, and he felt a little bad, but not really. “Thank you!”

Kuroo grabbed Bokuto’s arm and yanked him out of the store, laughing. Outside, the rain was still pouring, and Kuroo paused under the awning to pull out his umbrella. When it was up, he reached for Bokuto to pull him underneath, but he wasn’t there. He looked up and saw a head of silver hair a couple of steps ahead of him, walking sullenly back home. Oh, no. Kuroo ran to catch up.

“Bokuto,” Kuroo called to his husband over the noise of the rain. “You’re getting soaked.” He reached a hand out to Bokuto’s shoulder, but Bokuto shrugged it away.

“I don’t care,” said Bokuto. His voice was almost indistinguishable amongst the noise of the rain.

Kuroo was quiet for a moment as they walked. He stared at Bokuto’s tense back, at his sopping hair.

“Are you mad at me?” asked Kuroo.

Bokuto froze and turned around, finally looking Kuroo in the eyes. Kuroo stopped walking. Bokuto’s eyes were red.

“You just broke that poor girl’s heart. It would have been so easy if we had just told her the truth.”

Kuroo stared at him. “Are you serious?” asked Kuroo. He felt his temper flaring. “You care more about some girl’s tiny crush than about our safety?”

“What safety?” challenged Bokuto. He pointed back towards the store. “She was a tiny girl! What was she going to do, stab us to death?”

Kuroo blinked, then took a step forward, lowering his voice. “Don’t fucking joke about that. You know how upset it makes me.”

Bokuto pushed at Kuroo’s shoulders, shoving him back. “How upset it makes you? I was the one who got stabbed, remember? I was the one who spent four months in the fucking hospital!” Bokuto was openly shouting now, and Kuroo glanced around, but the street was devoid of people, filled only with the traffic of cars. It was noisy, and Kuroo felt a roaring in his ears.

Bokuto was still yelling. “I was the one had to give up my fucking dream because me and you were a bunch of stupid kids who were too fucking in love. But I don’t regret it. I don’t live in regret. And I’m not going to live my life in fear, either, or pretend we’re not married, just because I’m scared of what’s going to happen. What’s the point of living like that, huh? What’s the fucking point?”

It was silent. Kuroo could feel water running down his face, but he wasn’t sure if they were tears or just rain. After a moment, Bokuto turned and hailed a cab, then climbed in, leaving Kuroo in the rain, alone. This was how it usually went. Not that they fought often—they were simply both the type to need some time alone.

Kuroo threw his umbrella to the side in frustration and sunk to the ground, his head in his hands. There was only one place to go from here: Kenma’s.

* * *

 

Kuroo was wrapped up in a blanket on Kenma’s couch, sipping at some tea. He watched as Kenma moved around the house, cleaning up here and there. It was a mess. But Kuroo didn’t mind—Kenma had always been this way, ever since they were kids.

Finally, Kenma gave up and joined Kuroo on the couch, switching on the television for some cartoons.

They were quiet for a moment, the only sounds in the room the slow sips of Kuroo’s tea.

“Am I overprotective? No, wait—am I an asshole?” asked Kuroo.

“No.”

“No to which one?”

“You’re not an asshole.”

“So I’m overprotective?”

Kenma glanced at him. “Yes.”

“Why is that a bad thing, though? Someone has to do it.” Kuroo set his tea down, sinking down into the couch cushions.

“Bokuto can take care of himself. He’s a grown man.”

A black cat slinked its way into the living room, then jumped onto the couch, burying itself into Kuroo’s lap. “Hi, Momo,” said Kuroo. He stroked the cat’s fur, and the cat purred, its eyes slitting closed, drowsy.

“Look at how much fur he’s losing,” said Kenma. “He’s getting old.” Kuroo had gotten Kenma that cat after they’d graduated college, as a housewarming present.

“He has a few more years left. Don’t worry,” said Kuroo. A beat. “I want a hug.”

Kenma wordlessly opened his arms, and Kuroo shifted, the cat jumping off his disappearing lap. He crawled forward on the couch and wrapped his arms around Kenma’s waist, laying his head in his lap.

And like that, he slept.

* * *

When Kuroo went home early the next morning, he found Bokuto asleep at his desk in the study, his head bent at an odd angle, his fancy Oikawa clothes from the night before still on. There were four empty beer bottles littered on the ground. Kuroo sighed—Bokuto loved clichés, and he particularly loved embodying the drunk writer stereotype, even though he had the lowest alcohol tolerance ever. Kuroo shook him awake.

Bokuto cracked open his eyes, and then huffed and shifted to turn his head the other way. Kuroo rolled his eyes. He hoisted Bokuto up by the arms, trying to ignore his resistance, and dragged him to the bedroom, pushing him facedown onto the bed. Bokuto lay there, refusing to budge, his clothes dampening the sheets.

Kuroo stared at him lying there, and suddenly, inexplicably, was hit with a wave of love. Love in every single sense of the world: attraction for him, considering how good Bokuto looked in Oikawa’s suit despite the fact that it was wet and ruined; gratitude for how emotional Bokuto got over Kuroo, over their disagreements, for how much Bokuto cared; affection for how stupid and silly his personality was.

Kuroo flipped Bokuto over and slid his pants off of him, which was a definite struggle. Bokuto’s hands were thrown over his eyes, refusing to look at Kuroo. Kuroo persisted, though, pulling Bokuto up to sit so that he could remove his coat and shirt.

Kuroo gathered all of Bokuto’s—no, Oikawa’s—damp clothes and left the room to toss them into the laundry. When he came back, Bokuto had his head buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking. He was a sight, looking like an overgrown baby in nothing but his boxers, but Kuroo thought it was cute. It didn’t occur to Kuroo that Bokuto was crying until Bokuto breathed in a wet gasp, until Kuroo saw the tears dripping down from his chin.

“Hey, hey,” said Kuroo, rushing over and dropping to his knees in front of the bed. “Don’t cry, Bo. I’m sorry for making you cry.” He reached up and pried Bokuto’s hands from his face, cupping his cheeks with his own hands instead. He used his thumbs to wipe away the tears, but they wouldn’t stop coming. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and Kuroo knew he was holding in a lump. Bokuto kept his eyes squeezed closed for a moment, trying desperately to stop the tears, but eventually he gave up and fell forward, burying his head in Kuroo’s shoulder, openly sobbing now.

Kuroo’s hands moved to Bokuto’s back and he rubbed his spine slowly, holding him tight, letting him cry it out. He felt his own eyes sting with tears—he was the type of sap who cried whenever someone else cried.

Eventually, Bokuto quieted down, and he pulled back. He rubbed a hand over his face and took deep breaths. Kuroo leaned forward and took his face in his hands, giving him a small kiss on his cheek, then his other cheek, then his lips. But Bokuto shook his head, his mouth unresponsive, sewed shut.

Kuroo stood up and sat beside him on the bed. They stared at the ground.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” asked Bokuto after a moment.

“Nothing,” said Kuroo immediately, looking up and searching Bokuto’s face. “It was my fault. I was being an asshole. You were right that we shouldn’t live in fear. You were right, Bo, and I’m sorry for what I did to that girl.”

“I don’t care about the girl,” said Bokuto, still staring at the ground. “And stop apologizing. I didn’t have to leave you in the street like that. I didn’t have to yell at you like that.”

“You had every right to be upset.”

“Tetsu,” he said, meeting Kuroo’s eyes. “It was wrong of me to make you feel guilty for my injury. And it was wrong of me to overreact and yell. Please, please accept my apology. I’m so sorry.”

“Did Akaashi tell you to say that?” asked Kuroo, giving a small smile.

“I’m trying to be serious here!”

“I know. I’m just not used to you being so formal.”

Bokuto said nothing, and Kuroo looked at him, at his horrible damp hair, at his bare body, at his pleading eyes.

“I accept your apology,” said Kuroo. “But seriously—”

Bokuto groaned. “Yes, Akaashi told me to say that. As if you didn’t ask Kenma for advice either.”

Kuroo laughed and nudged his shoulder. Then he sobered up—though the atmosphere was no longer tense, he knew they weren’t finished with this conversation. “What’s the real issue, though? Are you not happy with this?”

“What?”

Kuroo hated what he was about to say before he said it, hated how vulnerable he knew it would make him sound. But this was Bokuto, his husband of ten years now. If he could say anything, he could say it around his husband, right?

“I mean—this,” he continued, gesturing around the room. “Us. Me and you. Is it not enough? Or was ten years enough? Am I a bad husband?”  
A few more tears escaped Bokuto’s eyes, and he leaned towards Kuroo, grabbing his face. He touched his forehead to Kuroo, and Kuroo took the cue despite himself, allowing himself to fall back onto the mattress. Bokuto crawled over him and straddled him, unbuttoning Kuroo’s shirt.

“Do you know how much I was looking forward to this yesterday, Tetsu?” asked Bokuto. “I wanted you to wear your sexy nurse outfit.”

“My uniform is not sexy.”

“Yes it is. I’ve told you this before. I always have dirty thoughts when you come home.” Bokuto slid his hands up Kuroo’s now-bare chest and bent forward, kissing him deeply on the lips. Their tongues tangled together, and Kuroo felt Bokuto’s hands on his pants. He pulled away.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Bokuto stared at him, his hands pausing their steady work on Kuroo’s pants. “You’re not a bad husband. In fact, you’re the best husband ever. I just wish everyone else knew that, too. I want to yell it out to the world. I want to show you off like the trophy wife you are.”

Kuroo’s felt his face redden. He pulled Bokuto back on top of him, his heart warm, and they shed the last of their clothes, clinging on to each other like dogs in heat. Their kisses were hot, wet, punctuated with soft moans as they ran their hands all over each other, not leaving a single patch of skin untouched. Bokuto nudged Kuroo over onto his stomach and bent over his back, leaving kiss after kiss on Kuroo’s spine. He licked his way up Kuroo’s thighs, and when Kuroo felt a soft wetness at his hole, he shuddered, burying his face into the pillow, his legs shaking.

When Bokuto entered him, it felt like home. This tiny two-bedroom in Shibuya, this godforsaken city where they had met, where they had grown, cried, broken, where they had fallen in love over and over again—this was home. This feeling of Bokuto’s chest sliding down his back, of Bokuto’s lips on his neck, of Bokuto’s hand clutching at his hair—this was home. Kuroo wouldn’t give back the last ten years of his life for anything.

**Author's Note:**

> it would be cool if some1 could write a better sex scene for the end of this. i can't write sex scenes :( i get too awkward. also i plan on writing a story about them getting together in this universe!


End file.
